Читать книгу Phantom Lover - Rebecca York, Rebecca York - Страница 12

For several heartbeats the room remained in the clutches of darkness. Then, perhaps in response to her urgent need, the clouds moved away from the moon and once again a sliver of radiance seeped through the crack at the edge of the drapes. In the cold, dim light that streamed across the room, Bree saw that she was alone.

Her midnight visitor had vanished—along with the mist that had rippled across the floor. Or had the mist just been the product of her overheated imagination?

Her heart was still pounding as she pushed herself up, pressed her back against the pillows and looked around the chamber.

“Troy?” she questioned, her voice no more than a breathy whisper. Once more there was no answer.

And no proof that the man who had come to her bed was Troy London, she thought, goose bumps blooming on her skin. In the darkness she hadn’t seen him, only felt his touch and his scorching kiss as he’d woven his erotic spell around her.

Her skin heated at the memory. Her gaze flew to the door, but it was shut, the way she’d left it.

Now that she was alone, the whole experience seemed cloaked in unreality. The mist, the man, her reaction that was so totally unlike her normal response.

Her visitor had come to her in the dead of night and coaxed a totally sensual response from her. Then, when she’d regained her senses, the rational part of her mind had been terrified.

At the same time, there was no way that she could deny the sexual pull toward her midnight caller. Raising her fingers, she touched them lightly to her lips, brushing them back and forth, feeling a small tingling afterburn of the sensations he’d generated.

Oh, yes, she remembered his touch. But she remembered other sensations, too. She’d felt strange, drugged, compelled, as if she’d been under some kind of evil magic spell.

Even as thoughts of black magic formed, her mind rejected the explanation—and jumped to a more acceptable alternative. Maybe the whole experience had simply been a dream, a very vivid dream brought on by her exhaustion and her own sexual needs. She’d been thinking about Troy, remembering him just before she’d gone to bed. And she’d been hoping to encounter him. So it made sense that she had conjured him up in the dark of the night. And conjured up the sensuality, too, if she were honest.

Because she’d never given up her secret dream of getting back together with Troy, and she’d never stopped wanting him.

She’d been a virgin seven years ago when she’d first met him, and she was pretty sure he’d known it. He’d been careful of her, going slowly, awakening her sensuality with touches and kisses that had become more intimate over time. She remembered that first thrilling moment when he’d cupped her breast then played with her beaded nipple through the fabric of her blouse and bra.

They’d been dancing on the porch then, their bodies swaying in slow, provocative rhythm. When he’d slid his hands down her body and pulled her against his arousal, her own need had leaped to meet his.

She’d been exhilarated with the knowledge that they’d been on the verge of making love. Then her mother had gotten sick and she’d gone rushing back to North Carolina. Mom’s health was fragile, and she couldn’t be left alone, so they’d moved to Baltimore, where Aunt Martha could take care of her while Bree was in school.

She’d lost track of Troy in the flurry of activity surrounding the move. Later, she’d told herself it was for the best. Still, she’d been shocked and hurt when she’d heard that he’d gotten married so soon after she’d left.

Then, because he’d taken a wife, she’d told herself it was wrong to still want him. And mostly she’d managed to keep him out of her thoughts. But Helen’s call had changed everything.

Maybe the real reason, the secret reason, she’d come rushing to Ravencrest was that she wanted to take up where they’d left off.

Unbidden, more scenes came winging back to her from the summer of her sophomore year in college—when she’d been head over heels in love with Troy. It wasn’t just sex. The two of them had seemed so right for each other. They’d gotten into long discussions about all sorts of topics from world politics to the running of the family cattle ranch. They’d gone for rides in the mountains, carried along a picnic lunch so they wouldn’t have to come back for hours. He’d taken her to the barn where she’d been entranced by a newborn foal.

She’d thought their relationship was heading somewhere important. And then it had all been snatched away from her.

As those memories from the past flooded through her mind and body, it was impossible to stay in the bed where he’d come to her. Throwing aside the covers, she swung her legs over the edge, thumping her feet onto the floor as she looked around.

Weaving slightly, she crossed the room. First she tried the door, just to make sure. It was locked—the way she’d left it.

With a sigh, she backtracked to the window. When she opened the curtains and pushed at the bottom sash, it slid upward with only minimal resistance.

The cold outside air sent a shiver rippling over her skin, but she didn’t step back. Cautiously, she stuck her head out and took in the scene. The stars and moon gleamed in a black velvet sky. A path of moonlight wavered on the dark surface of the restless ocean below her.

Dragging her gaze away from the mesmerizing sky and the water, she inspected the wall of the building. It rose above her for two more floors like a man-made extension of the cliff. And like the cliff, there were rough stones that an agile climber might be able to use for hand-and footholds. But could anyone climbing the wall have gotten away so quickly?

Maybe, if he’d slipped inside another room. Or if he was a mountain climber, like Troy. That summer, she’d watched with her heart in her throat as he’d scaled sheer cliffs. There was no reason he couldn’t do the same thing now.

Suddenly feeling dizzy, she pulled her head back inside, then shut the window and sprung the latch.

Her next stop was the bathroom, where she felt around for the light switch. It was in the off position, and the light came on as soon as she flipped it up. Blinking in the yellow glow, she waited for several seconds then checked her watch. It was one in the morning. She’d gone to bed around seven, so she’d slept almost six hours. That meant she probably wasn’t going back to sleep anytime soon.

With a small shrug, she crossed to the sink, scooped up some water in her hands and took several sips. The tingling cold helped ground her. Deliberately, she brought up more details from the disturbing encounter, examining the facts and her feelings.

Either she’d dreamed up the whole thing or a man had come to her room, a man whose presence had frightened her but whose seductive touch had captivated her. He hadn’t been rough with her. On the contrary, his attention had been gentle yet thrilling. Still, she’d known he shouldn’t be there and when she’d reached to push him away, her hands had contacted only empty air.

Once more, her skin prickled. She wanted to cling to the dream theory, but she knew that would be dangerous.

Just as it was dangerous to get all wound up with memories of Troy—or to mix them up with the present.

She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to talk herself out of the feeling of intensity he’d created within her. Intensity she’d seldom experienced in her lifetime.

Of course she’d had relationships with other men since her almost affair with Troy. In fact, she’d done her best to forget Troy London and to get serious about someone else. But none of her other boyfriends had seemed like the soul mate she’d wanted for a marriage partner. And she’d known deep down that she was comparing each of them unfavorably to Troy.

She snorted. Talk about carrying a torch! Obviously the man had gotten over her. He’d married not long after that sweet summer encounter. And Helen had said that his wife’s death had devastated him.

Yet tonight he hadn’t come to her like a man still pining for his lost wife. He’d come to her like a lover. And now she struggled to figure out what that encounter meant.

Again she touched her lips, remembering the kisses in the darkness. She was making assumptions about his identity. Could she be sure he was the same man who had held her in his arms seven years ago?

She couldn’t answer that question. Maybe if she’d seen him tonight she would know for sure. But she was forced to rely on her other senses—on the memory of his long-ago kisses and caresses. She’d been a lot younger then. So had Troy. His kisses had been different, less skillful back then. But she could put that down to his lack of maturity and experience. And her own immaturity, too.

Resolutely she reentered the bedroom and switched on the overhead light. Then she turned to the closet. The door was closed, and she hesitated for heartbeats as she stared at the dark wood as if trying to penetrate it with her gaze.

If he was inside, she should clear out. Yet he hadn’t hurt her. He hadn’t demanded anything. He’d only taken as much as she’d wanted to give. And he probably wasn’t anywhere around now.

She recognized all those thoughts as rationalization. Still, before she could stop herself, she grasped the knob, turned it and pulled the door open. The closet was empty—and as dark as she remembered.

She breathed out a small sigh, then kneeled on the floor, felt around in her suitcase and found the flashlight that she’d brought along for emergencies. When her heart rate had calmed a little, she began investigating the closet, shining the light along the walls, over the ceiling and down to the floor, which was made of the same wood boards as in the bedroom. The walls and ceiling were old-fashioned plaster, except for the back of the closet, which was wood paneling. Holding the light in one hand, she shone the beam over the surface. With the other hand, she ran her fingers and palm lightly over the wood, taking care not to pick up any stray splinters in the process. She thought she detected a line where two pieces of paneling came together—which proved nothing more than that the surface had been applied in sections.

Making her hand into a fist, she rapped her knuckles lightly against the wood, first on one side, then on the other, and finally in the middle. The sound seemed different—more solid in the middle and on the right side, more hollow on the left.

Unsure of how to proceed, she tried pressing on various parts of the panel, disappointed when nothing happened. Exasperated, she put down her flashlight and pressed with two hands, trying different random patterns. When she pushed with one hand near the top of the panel and the other near the middle, there was a soft click. In the next second the wall swung inward, revealing a dark, yawning cavern.

She stared into the blackness, automatically wishing the door hadn’t opened. Then, firming her jaw, she picked up the flashlight again and shone it into the opening. A long, dark passage stretched in front of her. The old Bonnie Brennan would probably have shut the door again, gone back to bed and pulled the covers over her head. The old Bonnie Brennan had been passive and timid. The new Bree Brennan knew she had to find out where the passage led because there was no safety in her room as long as someone could sneak in at will.

But the new Bree Brennan was no fool. She wasn’t going to do it dressed in her nightgown. And she wasn’t going to act like the dumb heroine of a Gothic novel. She was going to get her gun.

Digging through her suitcase, she began to pull out the separate parts of the weapon. The barrel was a narrow flashlight. The clip was a waterproof box filled with “medicine capsules.” The stock was a soap dish.

After finding all the components, she sat on the bed and put the gun together.

Carefully she tested her construction skills, then loaded in a clip and got comfortable again with the feel of the weapon in her hand. Before she’d left Baltimore, she’d trained with this pistol on a firing range until she’d felt confident that it would protect her if she needed it.

Turning back to her suitcase, she found a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. After pulling them on, she got out socks and running shoes. When she was better outfitted for exploring, she picked up her gun and the flashlight and faced the tunnel again.

As she played the beam over the walls, she saw that they were made of the same paneling as the back of the closet. The floor, however, was stone.

Spiderwebs blurred the line where the ceiling met the walls, and she braced for musty air. But it had an unexpected freshness, as though there were some access to the outside. When she licked her finger and held it up, she detected a faint breeze.

Some part of her thought it might not be a dumb idea to turn around and go back. At the same time another part of her wondered if she was being compelled to sneak down this tunnel by some outside force. The same force that had held her captive in bed when she’d first awakened.

Just to prove she could, she stopped in her tracks and thought about what she was doing. It made sense that the man who’d come to her room was long gone. But if he’d gotten into her bedroom through this tunnel, she wanted to know what lay at the other end.

“Troy?” she called.

He didn’t answer, and she hadn’t expected him to. Still, calling out to him made her pulse beat faster.

Gun in one hand and flashlight in the other, she moved along the passage, feeling the floor slope slightly downward as she went. She stayed close to the right-hand wall, and about ten feet into the tunnel, the surface changed from paneling to stone.

After about twenty paces, the tunnel curved to the right, abruptly turning a corner so that when she swiveled back, she could no longer see the closet where she’d entered.

If she turned off the flashlight, she knew she would be in total darkness. A jolt of claustrophobia grabbed her by the throat and she had to pause and press her arm against the rough stone. Closing her eyes, she took several deep, steadying breaths. When she felt more in control, she started moving forward again, still counting the paces.

She had taken perhaps ten more steps when disaster struck, overtaking her so suddenly that she had no preparation. One moment she was standing on solid ground, the next, the floor of the tunnel fell out from under her feet.

A scream tore from her throat as she dropped the flashlight and the gun, clawing at the wall with both hands. But there was no way she could stop herself from tumbling into space like a rag doll tossed over the edge of a cliff.

The gun clattered to the stone floor. The flashlight plummeted farther downward, the glass smashing and the light going dark as it hit something solid far below her.

The world seemed to slow, so that she felt trapped in a bubble. She had time to think, time to consider her fate. She would follow the flashlight down, her mind screamed as she braced for the impact of her body striking rock far below.

But it never happened. A man’s strong arms caught her, stopping her downward plunge in midfall. For a heart-stopping moment it felt as if she were standing on nothing but air, her legs dangling helplessly as he held her upper body in his grasp.

Rocks continued to tumble over the precipice into some black, bottomless pit, the impact reverberating in the confined space.

Her breath came hard and fast as she clung to him. Pressing her face against his chest, she struggled to make sense of what had happened.

Just as in the bedroom, she couldn’t see him in the darkness, only feel the solid shape of his body and the soft fabric of his flannel shirt as he folded her close.

It was him, the man who had come to her bed, she thought, leaning into his strength as the scent of soap and spice enveloped her.

In the darkness, she let him drag her a few steps back, away from the place where the floor had dropped out from under her feet. For long moments she was happy to simply nestle in his arms, eyes closed.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “Thank you for being there when I needed you.”

She felt his head nod, his chin brushing the top of her hair, felt his large hands slide possessively up and down her back, stroking, soothing, keeping her close in the circle of his arms. Clasping her more tightly, he turned his head so that he could press his lips against her hair, while his hands trailed over her back, along her spine.

It was tempting to simply drift, wrapped in his comfort and care. But finally she roused herself. “Tell me who you are,” she said.

As before, he didn’t speak.

She had been feeling calm and protected, but suddenly a flare of anger overtook her.

“Are you Troy? Answer me, damn you! What kind of games are you playing with me?” As she spoke, she angled her head up, trying to see him in the blackness. But she was just as frustrated as she had been in the bedroom. Without the flashlight, the tunnel was like the inside of a whale’s belly.

He took advantage of her upturned face and open lips. Instead of speaking, he brought his mouth down on hers in a kiss that took her by surprise.

There was a charged moment when she tried to tell him what she thought of his evasive maneuvers. But he didn’t give her the opportunity. Instead he took her by storm, his lips demanding, insisting, commanding as his hands clamped over her shoulders, holding her to him.

She might have tried to pull away, except that below the surface of his assault, she sensed a need that tugged at her with a desperation that made her heart turn over.

Without giving herself time to consider the wisdom of her actions, she allowed her lips to soften against his. It was only the barest signal of surrender, but he reacted immediately.

The kiss changed from a ravishment to a meeting of two equal forces. On a sigh, she gave herself over to it, experimenting with the sensations he was generating within her, rubbing her mouth back and forth against his, then taking his lower lip between her teeth the way he’d done in the bedroom, staking a claim on his flesh.

It was then that she heard a deep, throaty sound well in him. The sound was the first he had made since he’d come to her in the bedroom, one part of her mind realized. That thought fled as he took back dominance of the kiss, angling his head, moving his lips against hers, sipping from her, inciting her, then soothing with masterful control.

She heard wind roaring in her ears, a cyclone brewing. Somehow he was the only safe refuge. She felt fire sweep her up, fire that came from him and kindled a roar of heat in her belly.

The kiss tasted of dark needs and the wild heather clinging to the cliffs.

When he silently asked her to open her mouth, she did his bidding, then shivered as his tongue swept along the sensitive tissue of her lips.

She felt his hunger, felt her own hunger leap up to match his. He pressed her back so that she was trapped between the rock wall and the solid barrier of his body.

The cold stone might have chilled her if the heat of his body hadn’t seeped into her flesh and bone. It was like being caught in the blast from an open furnace. And she might burn to a cinder if she wasn’t careful. That thought brought back a measure of sanity.

It took a tremendous act of will, but she managed to raise her hands, pushing gently against his chest. “Don’t. We have to talk. You were in my room. Then you came here—and saved me from that pit.”

In the dark, the air stirred, and she thought he had nodded again. But he didn’t volunteer any words of agreement.

The silence made her boil with frustration and she grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “Dammit, I don’t even know if you’re Troy! I think you must be Troy. But it’s been so long.” The wistful sound of her own voice made her stop and drag in a calming breath. Slowly, deliberately, she let it ease out again. “Every time I try to have a conversation with you, you kiss me. What’s wrong with you? Have you lost the ability to talk?”

Her heart thumped in her chest as she waited for an answer, half afraid that it was actually true—that somehow he’d been struck mute.

“I can speak to you,” he said, sounding surprised and relieved, as though he’d just discovered that he possessed the ability.

“Thank God!” she breathed. “Helen is worried about you. She said she got e-mails from you that sounded strange.”

“She got e-mails from me?”

“Yes!” Her hands tightened on his arms. “Troy, what happened to you? What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer the question. Instead he said very clearly and distinctly, “I didn’t send her any e-mails. She’s lying.”